The Smoking Box
by Catherine Spark
Summary: This story is my imaginings of the events leading up to the story Devil's Foot.


_**Author's Note:**_

_**This story details my imaginings of the events leading up to the holiday for Holmes's nerves that is the setup for Devil's Foot.**_

_**Holmes comments in The Hound of the Baskervilles that a concentrated atmosphere (such as that achieved by a mountain of tobacco) helps him think, and adds that getting into a box would be going too far but would be the logical outcome. **_

_**Spoiler alert, but the physical symptoms of hypoxia and nicotine poisoning are accurate.**_

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In the spring of 1897 it became apparent that Holmes's nerves were giving way under an intense load of continuous, rigorous brainwork. His fame had spread so far and wide that interesting and intriguing cases came back to back with little or no time for rest in between. His physique, accustomed to several days of intense work followed by a complete slump, buckled accordingly.

Matters came to a head one week in early May. Nothing had passed his lips for five days, with the exception of milk (which he sometimes consented to drink in place of water at my insistence). He had entered that vicious cycle whereby he would not rest or eat until he had solved his case, but, despite his claims of being 'fine', his brain simply could not work well enough to solve any case on so little food and rest.

I was loathe to leave him during such periods of indiscretion, but unavoidable business called me away one morning. I left him sitting in his usual chair with his pipe and a large pile of shag tobacco. At the earliest possible hour I hurried back to Baker Street and up the stairs. I will never forget bizarre site I met with upon entering the living room. The room was swathed in a haze of tobacco smoke, and in the centre of the room there sat a very large box. A terrible sense of foreboding overcame me when I saw the wisps of tobacco smoke curling from the corners and top of the box.

Without another thought I threw the box open, turned it on its side, took my friend under the arms and dragged him out. He was unconscious and clammy, his breathing was rapid, shallow and irregular and his pulse was thready and uneven. As I laid him down on the floor his body was racked with twitching spasms. I turned his head to one side just in time as he vomited and experienced an acute attack of diarrhoea simultaneously.

I shouted for Mrs Hudson. "He's suffering from acute nicotine overdose and moderate hypoxia," I told her. "He'll make a full recovery, but we have to act now." The good woman was white with fear, but conducted herself admirably. She threw both windows wide open and went to call another doctor. As Holmes's intimate friend my judgement was naturally impaired in some ways, and a second opinion was wise.

Holmes's eyelids fluttered, and he groaned in pain. "Hur…errywher…" he mumbled, and tried to sit up without success. I pushed him back down – it did not take much effort. "Need air…" he gasped pitifully.

"Alright old man," I told him, "Lie still."

"Is it morning? Turn on…lights…Watson…" He reached out clumsily and I caught his arm, realising with shock that his vision was impaired. "There you are again…" Holmes muttered, groping for my hand. I gripped it and my eyes blurred with tears.

"Ah…I begin to see you now…" he said in a clearer, stronger voice. His eyes focussed on mine and he struggled into a sitting position with my help. "Everything is spinning and sparkling," he declared, blinking several times and flexing his long, nervous fingers. "I seem to have made an excellent job of ruining my attire and the surrounding area," he commented apologetically.

After a few minutes the tobacco smoke had all but dissipated, and Holmes's usual detached, ironical manner was all but back. It was then that the doctor from the hospital arrived. Holmes refused point-blank to be taken to hospital – or at least refused to be taken in the state he was in. With his old masterfulness returning, I knew that treatment could wait, providing he was not left alone. The hospital doctor examined Holmes and confirmed my diagnoses and personal judgements. He left and Mrs Hudson ushered Holmes and me away from the living room so that she could clear up.

After he had bathed, I forced Holmes to change into night clothes and take to his bed. Mrs Hudson brought him some scrambled eggs and I tried to get him to eat, but he would not. He could not relax either, not even to the small extent of lying back on the pillows. He was trying so hard now to do what I advised – trying to relax, trying to bring himself to eat. That he could not do so despite trying, worried me a great deal.

"I can't leave that infernal case in such a condition," he told me, rocking back and forth. For a few seconds he was silent, then his last reserves seemed to be exhausted and his face crumpled into tears. "I'm so exhausted Watson, I can't _think_."

"Holmes," I told him, firmly, carefully hiding my horror at this final breakdown of character, "I do not care what you say or do – I can't stand to see you go to pieces like this. I am going to give you a sedative, and then I am calling a four wheeler and we are going to get you some help. No my dear fellow, you cannot dissuade me: I shall use force if necessary."

Two hours later Holmes slumped through the office doors of Doctor Moore Agar of Harley Street.

"Well Mr Holmes, I knew you were unconventional in your methods but I can't imagine what kind of work could have brought you to this sorry state."

"Hard work, Doctor, very hard, exacting work," I told him. "He desperately needs food and sleep and is aware of this, but despite his own efforts he cannot achieve such luxuries."

"I see," said the doctor thoughtfully. He then chatted to Holmes for some minutes about general subjects of interest. "Well Mr Holmes," he concluded, "You've strained your nerves terribly, that is clear, and you have been lucky to avoid a complete breakdown. Nerves are essentially no different from any other part of the body, you know. The only cure for such a strain-injury is complete rest."

"I shall be fine if I can just have a course of sedatives. Then I can resume my work."

"I think not," said the doctor firmly. "I am sure Doctor Watson would agree that you are in no fit state to work, or even to remain in London. I am prescribing you a complete holiday somewhere quiet, near the sea. You need a change of scenery and air. If you do not lay work aside immediately for a while, you will assuredly have a complete breakdown, from which full recovery may be impossible. It's no use arguing, Mr Holmes. You may not care about your own health, but two conscientious doctors are present and can sign a form permanently disqualifying you from work if necessary."

The effect of this last statement was dramatic. What little colour remained drained from Holmes's face, and any retorts upon his lips died away. He stared at Doctor Agar and then at me, with a pleading expression.

"Excuse me a minute," said the other doctor, and left the room.

Holmes turned to me. "You would not…" he managed quietly, at last.

"I would not only have a heavy conscience, but I should be guilty of malpractice if I allowed you to continue work in this condition," I told him. "Do what Doctor Agar says Holmes – _please_. Do not place me in this position if you love me."

I could see the inward struggle he was undergoing. Finally, he held up his hands in a beaten fashion. "Oh well then. I can turn my cases over to Inspector Baynes. He's competent enough to solve them, even if it takes a little longer."

Something changed in Holmes's face once this speech was completed. I most definitely saw not irritation or anxiety, but_ relief_, written all over his features. The decision was out of his hands and he was grateful for that.

"Good man," I said quietly.

Doctor Agar returned with a slice of hot buttered toast cut into bite sized squares. "This usually works when nothing else will," he told me. He placed the plate on Holmes's knee and gave him a stern look.

"Now, you do not leave this room until you have something wholesome in your stomach," he told Holmes. "If you cannot eat this slice of toast then I am sorry to say that I shall have to resort to giving you a tube-feed, and that is not pleasant."

Holmes looked down at the plate of toast. Gingerly he took a piece between his fingers and, after a nod from me, put it in his mouth, chewed slowly and swallowed with an effort. He paused. "It's good," he confirmed, and managed a tiny smile.

Slowly, piece by piece, the slice of toast disappeared and some colour returned to Holmes's face.

Doctor Agar discharged us after prescribing Holmes a course of sleeping tablets.

"Don't let him sleep alone, Doctor Watson," the doctor warned me. "See that he has three meals a day, and if not, you must bring him back to me." I agreed, and we left.

On the way back, Holmes turned to me. "Would you really have signed a paper disqualifying me from work?" he asked.

I thought back on the weeks preceding this visit. The repeated refusals to eat, the insomnia, the endless pacing, the terrible, haunting violin marathons, the poisonous tobacco fumes, the extreme mood swings and the final crowning glory of nearly losing my friend. "Yes," I told him simply.

Two days later, Holmes had much improved. He was sitting in his old chair dressed in his normal clothes, reading an article about the archaeology of British bog-land, having eaten two boiled eggs for breakfast. I entered the living room. "I have arranged us a holiday," I announced, "We leave tomorrow. Leave the packing and organisation to me."

"Well, well!" He smiled with resigned amusement.

"We're going to Cornwall. Beautiful surroundings, right by the Poldhu bay – and a wealth of stone-age material to study."

"Indeed?" his smile broadened. "It may promise not to be as dull and interminable as I had anticipated then."

I chuckled. The Holmes I knew was definitely coming back with a vengeance.

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THE END

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